Peace
by Caleon
Summary: Nearing the first anniversary of his rule, High King Peter still struggles under the weight of his responsibilities. Narnia Fan Fiction Revolution Secret Santa gift-fic for Hev. Happy Holidays!


~ Peace ~

_A/N: It was pretty much a given that this year I'd be writing a Peter holiday fic. I just didn't know about what. Hev made it easy on me by asking that her Secret Santa giftfic be based on a quote by Charles Bukowski. Happy Holidays, Hev!_

"The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them." ~ Charles Bukowski, _Tales of Ordinary Madness_

_Winter 1001_

Lucy wanted a sled. Susan wanted a new winter cloak. Ed had been slipping hints about getting help rewriting some faded texts on tax code.

All Peter wanted was five minutes of peace.

He shut the door of his state room and slumped back against the wood. Maybe he'd actually get it this time.

He had taken only four steps toward his desk when a knock came at the door. "Sire?"

Peter sighed and put his "High King" face back on. "Enter."

A faun came in, and ate up an hour stumbling over his tongue about some dispute between hedgehogs and dormice over winter burrows. It wasn't a complicated issue, but the faun seemed not to know what to do in Peter's presence. Nearly a year into the Pevensies' reign, he'd have thought everyone would be acclimated to seeing and interacting with their Kings and Queens. Peter knew he was young, but he tried hard to be fair and considerate. It didn't help his self-confidence when many of their subjects still went about afraid to speak their minds in front of their new human celebrities.

When Peter finally got the whole story out of the faun, the solution was clear. He wrote up an order and set it into the faun's hands. "Take that to the Hedgehog and Dormouse elders."

The faun examined the orders. "Th-Thank you, Sire. A brilliant suggestion. I'll see to this right away!" he said, and raced from the room.

When he was gone, Peter nearly ran to his bedroom. He was just about to shut the door when Susan called, "Wait!"

He almost flinched as if he'd been caught raiding the kitchens. He pivoted on his heel and found a smile. "Yes?"

"They're lighting the tree in the Great Hall in ten minutes. Where have you been?"

_Regretting my decision not to go hunting with Oreius after all,_ he thought wryly. But if he weren't there to celebrate the lighting of Cair's Christmas tree in their very first year of reign, it wouldn't look well to the Narnians ... _or_ any of the visiting dignitaries (who, Peter thought, came more to ogle and inspect Narnia's new monarchy than to consult on matters of state).

Susan was more astute than most people guessed. Often, they could barely see it past her looks or her gentleness of character. Those things, they never failed to comment upon. They'd never had to reckon with her as a too-observant, worrywart sibling. She frowned at him. "Whatever is wrong, Peter?"

_I'm drowning,_ he answered in his head. _I am High King of this country, protector of you and Lucy and Ed, and I'm in way over my head, and I'm completely not right for this._ Aloud, he said brightly, "Nothing's wrong. Let's go."

She didn't look convinced, but she slipped her arm through his and gave him a supportive squeeze.

They went to the Great Hall, where Lucy and Ed were already in position at their thrones. Peter and Susan joined them, and soon, they had a tall, stately, elegantly lit fir shining brightly under Cair's glass roof.

Lucy led them all in a series of Christmas carols. Peter sang along, though his mind was already thirty steps ahead on the commissioning of a new, heated pipe system for the kitchens' water supply. After that, he had to address a letter from King Lune regarding a group of Calormenes who'd been causing trouble along Narnia and Archenland's shared border. And then he really ought to—

"You do look amusing when you're scowling in deep thought, brother," came Edmund's voice, musical with humor. "Not an accustomed look for you at all."

Ed dodged Peter's swat with an easy sidestep and a laugh. "Touchy, touchy."

"The last thing I need right now is you needling me," Peter grumbled as someone struck a tune.

"I know," Ed answered. "I've sent a party to the southern border to deal with the Calormene issue, and there's an eagle on its way to Lune to explain. You're welcome. Go dance, before—"

Ed didn't get out the rest of his thought. Or maybe he did and Peter didn't hear, because in the next instant, Lucy had yanked him forward by his arm onto the floor by the tree, and begun dancing a merry reel. Her lively step jostled a laugh out of him.

Ed stood at the side of the hall with a smug smile—which didn't last long, because a second later, Susan had jerked him into the dancing fray. Seeing the dismayed look on his brother's face, Peter grinned widely.

For hours, Narnia's Kings and Queens danced with any and all subjects who asked it, big or small, awkward or accomplished, young or old. Peter couldn't refuse the delighted looks on the Narnians' faces. They had a lot to celebrate this year, he supposed—the return of Christmas, for the second time in a hundred years, and the knowledge that even though the snow fell outside, it would retreat again in spring.

At the end of the night, he found himself trudging the last few steps to his bedchamber, only to hear a clearing throat behind him. Watching his restful sleep slipping away before his eyes, Peter turned to answer the summons.

An old satyr stood before him, his arms full of heavy furs. "Your presence is requested in the orchard, Sire."

"Can't it wait until morning?"

If satyrs could blush, Peter thought the old fellow might. "I don't think so, Sire." He gave Peter an uncomfortable look, and held out the furs. Peter donned the cloak and hood and, dismissing the satyr, returned to the Great Hall.

The celebration had worn down. The tree, still lit, was attended by a pair of fauns, but there were few others in the Great Hall now. The centaur guard at the orchard door nodded deferentially as he passed through it.

Down the stair he went, glad now for the furs ... and for the torch set in a bracket on the wall in the stairwell. Frost lined the bottom steps, and he took greater care with his tread. His mind was still half on a rewritten tariff policy for the Lone Islands when he reached the landing, wondering what new task had kept him from his warm, soft bed. Already, he missed the brief respite he would get before Badger Sharpsnout ushered him awake in the wee hours. He was not made for this, not up to the demands of Narnia's people. He hadn't the stamina for it. What were they thinking, making him the High King, let alone a king at all?

But when he pushed open the door, the tantalizing scent of apple blossoms greeted him. Birds sang as if it were high noon in mid-May. Wondering, Peter started into the trees. The farther he went, the slushier the snow became under his boots.

Finally, in a small clearing at the end of the orchard, he spied Aslan. The Lion sat regally in the center of a patch of spring-green grass. The trees around the clearing had bloomed, and their heavenly apple scent teased Peter's nose.

With a glad shout, Peter walked faster—walked, not ran, because as the High King he felt that even then he should show some decorum.

The Lion seemed to understand his train of thought, because he gave a whiskery smile. "Hello, Son of Adam."

Peter bowed. "What brings you here, Aslan? Shall I send for the others?"

"I am not here for your brother and sisters tonight," Aslan said.

Business, then. Peter stood straighter and awaited the Lion's orders.

But Aslan stretched out his long, golden body and lay in the grass. "Sit, Peter."

Curious now, Peter sat beside him.

"You've been doing well," Aslan said.

"I have a lot to learn. A lot to do."

"Yes."

That single word encompassed all the doubt and anxiety Peter had been feeling since coming to Narnia, compounded now by the fact that he was responsible for everyone's well-being. He slouched under the weight of it without realizing he did so.

"Do you know how Narnia came to be?" Aslan asked.

"I've read the story," Peter said, thinking of the old scroll in the library that told the story of Narnia's birth. The words had been faded, the paper brittle. Another text that ought to be transcribed. He made a mental note to add that onto the tasks for Ed's new scribe ... for whom he still had to conduct a search. It was hard to find someone with excellent penmanship, but harder still to find a scribe who could also illuminate the texts with skill and artistry. Ed was picky about that sort of thing.

"The White Witch escaped the destruction of Charn and found her way into your world. A bit before your time," Aslan reminded him. The Lion's voice went on, weaving the tale in a musical, deep voice, and even the clearing's trees seemed to shiver with pleasure at the sound of it.

Peter had read the story several times. He wondered now why the Lion related it to him, whether there were some lesson in it which he could not see. He tried to remain vigilant, but Aslan's voice lulled him like the warmth of sunshine. He slumped back against Aslan's side, boneless with languor. The Lion seemed not to mind it, and went on speaking as if nothing had happened.

The story went on and on, a tapestry of animals given speech, and bare earth growing into rich forests and fields. Somewhere in the middle, Aslan sang. Not a song of creation, but a low, wordless song that put Peter in mind of drifting stars, and oceans rolling on the shore during a midsummer night. Aslan's side was warm against his back. Peter barely noticed when his head fell back against the Lion's flank. He shut his eyes and listened.

And everything lifted. Gone were the demands of soldier and scribe. Gone was the incessant chatter of task and tax. Gone were work and worry. Bliss washed through the empty space, and Peter gave a long sigh of contentment.

"My gift to you is this song, Peter," the Lion murmured at last. "Only look for it inside you, and it will be there. Merry Christmas."

But Peter didn't hear. He was fast asleep.

Aslan gave another whiskery smile, then breathed gently across his face.

~ The End ~

_May you find some peace of your own this holiday Season._

Happy Holidays 2011

_Love, Caleon_


End file.
